


Three-Minute Man

by tardisjournal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: come_at_once, Dirty Talk, M/M, Restraints, Semi-Public Sex, straitjackets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisjournal/pseuds/tardisjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock attempts a feat of escapology to impress John. Admittedly he hasn't practiced it in awhile, but he's <i>Sherlock Holmes</i>. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three-Minute Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the come_at_once community at LiveJournal in less than 24 hours, as per the nature of the challenge. As such, it is unbeta'd and not Brit-picked. It's probably also too wordy with not enough actual porn. But after having to decline the challenge twice to to RL issues, I had to post what I had and hope for the best. The (highly amusing!) prompt was provided by paperclipbitch: "Could you stop just watching and give me a hand?”

John had assisted Sherlock in slipping his arms into the purloined straitjacket willingly enough, and had made short work of the four buckles down Sherlock's back that secured the jacket closed. But when it came time to secure Sherlock's crossed arms to his body, he hesitated, staring at the straps in his hands.

“Pull them tighter,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock, are you sure about this?”

“For God's sake, John, I _have_ done it before.”

“When you were twelve,” John pointed out.

“I was better at escapology at twelve than most of the so-called professionals performing today,” Sherlock scoffed. “Pull the straps as tight as they will go. I won't break!”

John shook his head, resigned, then yanked the straps so hard he nearly pulled Sherlock off-balance.

“That's more like it.”

John fastened the final buckles, then reached between Sherlock's legs (taking great care not to let his hand brush anywhere inappropriate, lest he be accused of distracting Sherlock and sabotaging the demonstration) pulled the pelvic strap through, and fastened that to the back of the straitjacket as well.

John stepped in front of Sherlock, folded his arms, and looked him up and down. “There. Satisfied?”

“The important thing is whether _you_ are. Are you sure everything's fastened correctly? You didn't inadvertently leave any give anywhere? Overlook anything that might make you doubt my accomplishment later?”

“Sherlock, I _have_ done it before,” John said, echoing Sherlock earlier words. Granted, it was only during his medical training; he'd never actually had occasion to use a straitjacket on a patient. But his experience was more recent than Sherlock's was! “I'm satisfied.”

“Good. Then take a seat and get the timer ready.”

John picked up Sherlock's phone from the table and fiddled with it until he found the stopwatch feature, then perched on one of the laboratory stools and gave Sherlock an expectant look.

“What time did that puffed-up popinjay of a street-performer with whom you were so enthralled manage?” Sherlock sniffed.

“Three minutes, fifty-five seconds.”

“I'll do it in three.”

“That would... be impressive,” John admitted.

“I know.”

“On three, then?” At Sherlock's nod, John counted to three and pressed the button to activate the stopwatch.

00.00. 00.01. 00.02. The numbers started scrolling. And Sherlock started... well, at first, it didn't look like he was doing much of anything. He simply stood there for several long moments, his gaze fixed at a point behind John's head. From his deep, measured exhales, he appeared to be letting his breath out in increments. Then his whole upper body slumped, and his head lolled back.

John, concerned, sat up a bit straighter, but decided there was nothing to worry about when Sherlock started moving his arms about in the sleeves. Perhaps he was looking for slack, or creating it; whichever it was, this part wasn't very interesting to watch, so John amused himself by admiring the long line of Sherlock's neck, the sharp curve of his bared Adam's Apple, and his full lips, slightly parted in exertion.

Suddenly, Sherlock's head snapped up, and then he bent forward at the waist and started jerking his shoulders back and forth. John leaned forward as well, startled by sudden movement. Sherlock appeared to be trying to wrench his bound right arm toward his left shoulder, but was prevented by the strength of the canvas and the buckles holding it in place.

Sherlock's struggles grew increasingly violent, until his face was flushed and damp curls clung to his sweaty forehead. John remembered something that he'd heard about Houdini dislocating his shoulder to accomplish this trick and suddenly felt a little ill. Was that what Sherlock was trying to do? John wouldn't put it past him. Sherlock had great mental discipline and a high pain threshold, and was stubborn enough to pull it off.

As much as he was willing to humor Sherlock in, well, almost everything, resetting Sherlock's dislocated shoulder wasn't exactly John's idea of a fun evening.

“Look, Sherlock, you don't have to do this...”

Sherlock head shot up and he glared at John. “I'm fine! Stay where you are!”

John held up his hands in surrender. “Right! Right.”

John sat back and watched as Sherlock struggled for another full minute. Had the street performer taken so much time at this stage? John had no idea. He hadn't been timing him. He had just joined the crowed gathered round on a whim, with Sherlock trailing reluctantly behind, muttering about stupid wastes of time. The performer had warmed up the crowd with a few card tricks (which Sherlock had proceeded to ruin for John by explaining _sotto voice_ how they were done) and then had asked for a volunteer to put him in a straitjacket. Sherlock had tried to raise his hand but John, spotting the mischievous gleam in his eye, had smacked it down. In the end the performer had chosen a young blonde woman in a short skirt to do the honors, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and mutter about how she was probably a “plant”. John had cheerfully stepped on Sherlock's foot, nodded apologetically at the people giving them the side-eye, and then proceeded to enjoy the rest of the show.

For John, had been nothing more than a pleasant diversion one afternoon. Sherlock however, for all his complaining about how _boring_ and _ordinary_ the performance had been, hadn't seemed to be able let it go. Which was how John came to find himself in Molly's lab at St Bart's hospital late one Saturday night, watching a demonstration he wasn't sure he cared that much about. Because it seemed to mean something to Sherlock.

Finally, with a mighty heave, Sherlock managed to yank his right arm up over his head. It hung there, bent at the elbow and framing his face, as he started working his left arm upwards and craning his neck downward. John remembered it was at this point that the street performer had unbuckled the strap that held the sleeves together with his teeth, freeing his arms. From there he had reached backward and unfastened the top and bottom buckles behind him and then tugged the jacket off. John figured it was only a matter of moments now before Sherlock did the same. Well, great! John could congratulate him on a job well-done, assure him that he was duly impressed (which he was, actually, though more so that Sherlock cared enough to want to impress him rather than by this particular trick). Then they could get the hell out of Bart's before someone caught them and go do something else. Dinner at a restaurant and then sex in Sherlock's room perhaps; or take-away in the living room and then sex on the sofa. Or skipping dinner altogether and going right to the sex _anywhere at all_ , would also be fine.

But Sherlock seemed to be having issues. At 02.45 he was still stuck in the same uncomfortable-looking position, with one arm pinioned over his head and the other strapped across his chest; the buckle he needed to reach no closer. John noticed that Sherlock was by this point perspiring freely, breathing heavily, and his mouth had turned down in a ferocious scowl. With his disheveled curls flying out about his head, he looked like a petulant lion.

John, mindful of Sherlock's warning before, just sat and watched.

03.00 came and went, and Sherlock was no closer to reaching his goal, though he'd redoubled his efforts. At 03.55, John couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.

At 05.18, Sherlock stopped struggling and staggered back a step. The back of his thigh hit the edge of the long laboratory table behind him, and he sat down heavily on it, head hanging. His breath came in little pants.

“John. Something's gone wrong. I don't know that I.... that is I..."

John waited. It took effort.

Sherlock lifted his head at scowled at John. “Could you stop just watching and give me a hand?”

John couldn't help but be amused at the imperious tone. As if Sherlock wasn't the one who had got himself in this situation. As if this were somehow John's fault. Well, Sherlock couldn’t be that damaged if he could still sound so arrogant. When he'd staggered back, John had feared, just for a moment, he'd somehow managed to cut off his own oxygen supply and was in danger of asphyxiating. Clearly that wasn't the case.

John slid off the stool and walked over to Sherlock. “Can you stand?"

“Of course,” Sherlock said, demonstrating. His chin came up proudly, but with his head still trapped under the crook of his arm, he failed to achieve the head-toss he was undoubtedly going for.

“Right.” John stepped in front of Sherlock and looked him up and down. “I'll undo the strap holding the sleeves together first.”

“Just hurry up!”

“I'm trying! Can you move your left arm up any more? You've really got this jammed, haven't you?”

It took several tries, but John managed to release the buckle, and Sherlock arms fell to his sides. Sherlock took a deep breath, let it out with a big sigh and flapped his arms. Doing so made him appear like an enormous, ungainly flightless bird and it took all John had not to chuckle. He sternly reminded himself how cramped Sherlock's arms must be feeling at this point.

“Turn around,” he said.

John put his hands on Sherlock shoulders guided him until they were standing back to front. John released the buckle holding the pelvic strap and let it fall. Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth, and went rigid.

“Sherlock?”

“I'm fine! Just undo the buckles.”

There was something about that gasp. John knew that gasp. And something about the way Sherlock was holding himself...

Realization dawned. That strategically-placed strap had been right across Sherlock groin the whole time. His violent lurchings must have caused it to rub in very interesting ways. Ways that probably verged on the painful, at times, but then again, Sherlock had a very high tolerance for pain, didn't he? Maybe even a little thing for it. And now that the strap had been released, Sherlock's body was responding to the stimulation—and the sudden release from confinement--in a very predicable way.

Suddenly John's mind was flooded with the awareness that he had a bound, flustered and chastened (though he'd never admit it) Sherlock Holmes right in front of him.  And that he was probably going to hell for what he was about to do next, but he just... couldn't... resist.

He scooted forward so that his chest was pressed against Sherlock's back, and murmured in the direction of Sherlock's ear.

“Are you sure you're fine?” He let his hand brush across Sherlock's finely rounded-arse and then slid it between Sherlock's legs. “That strap was pretty tight. I better check for... damage.” He inched his hand forward and upward and then placed it directly over Sherlock's cock, which was indeed partially erect from his ordeal.

Sherlock's back went as stiff as a board. “John...”

“Hmm. Seems a bit swollen,” John continued, tracing the outline of Sherlock's cock through his trousers with a fingertip. “It's hard to tell for sure with these trousers in the way, though.”

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath, and let it out. John held his hand still, fingers resting lightly on the bulge in Sherlock's smooth wool trousers, and waited. If Sherlock told him one more time to release the buckles, he would. Then he'd hand Sherlock his coat and they'd be on their way. (Though if there was no sex later, _somewhere,_ it was going to be one frustrating night, because Sherlock wasn't the only one getting aroused now.)

Sherlock tilted his head back, so that they were nearly cheek-to-cheek. “Then you had better remove them, hadn't you?,” he replied in a throaty baritone that went straight to John's cock.

John bit down on a groan. He removed his hand from between Sherlock's legs and moved around to Sherlock's front. One look a the expression on Sherlock's face almost had him groaning again. And he'd thought Sherlock looked flustered before! The eyes gazing down at him were wide and dark, and two bright red spots had appeared over Sherlock's cheekbones. A deep flush was also creeping up his neck, but at this point John was more interested what was down below. He dropped to his knees and started unfastening Sherlock's belt.

The belt buckle was far more accommodating than the straitjacket buckles had been, as was the button of Sherlock's trousers and his zip. John yanked them down, taking Sherlock's pants along with it. Sherlock's cock bobbed free, nearly fully erect now. John swallowed hard and resisted the urge to take as much of it in his mouth at once as he could at once.

He ran a teasing fingertip down the length, root to tip. Sherlock suppressed a shudder. John repeated the action a few more times, enjoying the contrast between the velvety skin and the hardness underneath.

“Well, everything checks out here,” John reported. "But I'd better do a more thorough examination of the more sensitive areas.” He took Sherlock's cock in his left hand, and gently pushed the foreskin back, revealing the glans. Then he blew on it.

“ _Oh_!” Sherlock gasped. Sherlock's right arm came up, a reflexive motion perhaps, to encourage John or slow him down. It didn't really matter.

“Don't move, Sherlock. You moving totally defeats the purpose of a straitjacket. You wouldn't want me to have to strap your arms back down to your chest, would you?”

“N-no.” Sherlock dropped his arm back to the side.

“You don't sound so sure,” John teased. “Maybe I'll do just that.”

Sherlock shook his head emphatically. A bit too emphatically, John realized. He was playacting, getting into the role of the hapless victim. John took an experimental lap of at the exposed glans of Sherlock's cock and was rewarded with a desperate moan. Sherlock pushed his hips forward, thrusting his cock closer to John's mouth.

“Sherlock, you're still moving. I really don't want to stop what I'm doing, but I will if I have to.”

He lapped again, then paused.

“And maybe I won't stop with just strapping your arms down. Maybe I'll push you down into that chair and tie you to it as well."

He took another lap, relishing the effect his words where having on Sherlock's cock, which was quite damp around the tip now. He thought he'd push it a little further.

"And then maybe, if I feel like it, after I'm done with you I'll leave you in the chair, with the jacket on and your trousers down, for someone else to find. I wonder who would arrive first, Molly or the cleaning crew?”

He'd never do any such thing, of course, and of course Sherlock knew that. But the hollowness of the threat didn't seem to take away from its power in the slightest. Sherlock made desperate a sort of “ungh” noise in the back of his throat that was particularly obscene, and John couldn't resist any longer. He slid his mouth over the area he had been licking.

Sherlock's knees started to buckle, and John realized that maybe he should have let Sherlock sit on the table again before they started all this, but there was nothing for it now. He gave Sherlock a moment to right himself and then started work in earnest, sliding his mouth forward, taking a bit more each time, and then back, hollowing his cheeks as he went. He was rewarded with a cacophony of increasingly-incoherent noises from Sherlock, especially when John cupped his bollocks with his free hand and stroked them with his fingertips.

Sherlock's legs were trembling now, and when John glanced up around his mouthful, he saw that Sherlock's head had fallen forward, his eyes were closed, and he was worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. The sight of the normally buttoned-down, rigorously-controlled Sherlock coming undone was one of the most erotic sights John had ever seen, and he never got tired of it. John took Sherlock's entire length into his mouth and increased his ministrations on Sherlock's bollocks. Sherlock's legs locked and he cried out John's name as he came.

John swallowed, then pulled slowly off Sherlock's cock, releasing it. He tugged up Sherlock's pants and tucked Sherlock's cock back into them, then pulled them back into place. He glanced up, and seeing that Sherlock was staring down at him in a sort of a daze, did the same with his trousers. He fastened Sherlock's belt, then straightened up, wincing a bit as his own erection protested its confinement.

“I'm sure you'll be relived to hear that you're in tip-top shape,” he reported. “Now let's just get that straitjacket off you. Turn around.”

Obediently, Sherlock did. John unfastened the buckles in the back and pulled the jacket off Sherlock. Then he tossed it on the table and turned Sherlock around. Sherlock still seemed to be having trouble focusing on what was in front of him. John grasped him by his shoulders, and put his face right up to Sherlock's.

"Sherlock? You alright?”

Sherlock blinked and stared back at John, and then a big, lazy smile spread across his face. “I should think that was fairly obvious."

“I guess it is, but it never hurts to be sure." John smiled back. "We should probably be on our way, then. What should we do with the straitjacket?"

“Mm? Oh. There's a laundry bin in the hall. We'll pass it on our way out."

“Let's go then, shall we?”

Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent as they passed through the silent halls and out the back entrance to which Sherlock had an unauthorized key.  His was back to himself by the time they reached the street, however.

“I don't understand what went wrong! That must have been a newer model of straitjacket than I'm used to. It looks the same, but the straps seem to have less give in them as they used to.”

“No doubt, if the last time you tried it was really when you were twelve. I'm sure they've improved the technology since then," John replied absently, trying to remember he had enough money on him so they could take a cab home.

“I _started_ at twelve," Sherlock corrected. "I have done it since, but it _has_ been awhile. Should have taken that into account. I'm not as limber as I used to be as when I practiced every day. And then there's that muscle I pulled in my back last week when we had to jump off the fire escape that was missing half its rungs. Maybe I should have waited until..."

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I don't care why it didn't work.”

“No, of course you don't. It sounds like I'm making excuses. There aren't any. The truth is, I failed.”

“That's not what I meant! I meant that I don't care that you didn't manage to escape."

“You don't?”

“Of course not! You don't have to do stupid stunts like that to impress me. You do that just just by being you.”

“I wasn’t trying to... alright, maybe I was. A little."

“It's fine, Sherlock. And besides, you did beat one speed record tonight.”

“I did? What record is that?”

John let his gaze travel deliberately down to Sherlock's crotch, then back up again. “Yours.”

“Oh. Oh!” Sherlock's face flushed again. “John, I-I don't think that's anything to be particularly proud of.”

“It is if you're me." John grinned at Sherlock, who looked momentarily taken aback, then started to chuckle. 

John leaned in to kiss Sherlock on the cheek, then stepped out into the street to hail a cab. He was so turned on that if they didn't get home soon, he might break a record of his own, and coming unwittingly in his trousers at his age wasn't an honor that he particularly aspired to.


End file.
